


Something so precious about this

by onvavoir



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:12:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4228401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onvavoir/pseuds/onvavoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire can resist temptation, for the most part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something so precious about this

The question that comes to Claire on nights like tonight, when she has time off but still can't relax, is this:

_If I made my decision and he made his, why does it still feel unresolved?_

The answer, obviously, is that conscious decisions don't change feelings, or desires, or frightening natural chemistry. It's kind of a stupid question, really. It's what makes the whole thing so frustrating, the Gordian Möbius tangle of it. If only he could stop, let the weight of the world off his shoulders, she could convince herself that there was something worth hazarding. Then again, if he did that, how would that change how she thought of him? He wouldn't be in her life if not for his nocturnal hobbies, and on some level of her awareness she does admire his devotion to his cause.

She likes a lot of things about Matt that she doesn't verbalise. Like the tenderness he shows the people he cares about, which only serves to throw into stark contrast the violence with which he greets his enemies. She respects his principles, the way he's devoted his life to them-- both sides of it. His sweet smile and the way it banishes the darkness from his face. And that ass. Well, the ass she can admit to admiring. It's objectively spectacular, as is his lean muscled torso. His entire body, really, which she's seen a lot of for someone who isn't sleeping with him. It's weird. He's vulnerable with her in a way he isn't with anyone else. Psychologically naked. Sometimes physically. She tries not to think about the size of his dick and, as usual, fails.

Thank god he got body armour, so that at least now she isn't quite so strained with worry that he'll die on her couch-- or worse, somewhere out in the street. He shows up a little less often, a little more in one piece. It's a relief, but lying underneath it is the question. What would she do if he stopped showing up? 

What she would never admit to him-- what she can't admit to herself-- what she acknowledges only in the liminal state between sleep and consciousness, is that it turns her on. That little part of her that's just as angry as he is, the one that recognised him and whispered  _help him_  when it was the dumbest possible thing she could have done. That wicked little aspect of her that wants him to keep doing it. It wants him to appear at her window, bruised and bloody, smelling of new sweat, having just beaten the shit out of someone who dearly deserved it. That part of her wants to brush her lips across his abraded knuckles and hear his breath catch before he can stop himself.

She'd take off his gloves, that ridiculous cowl, all the parts, down to his boots. He'd be hard before she got down to his under layer, straining against thin black fabric, so that when she straddled him in her pyjamas, it would be easy to feel the shape of his dick, roll her hips against it, make him exhale hard. She could ride him for a few minutes, his hands on her hips, her hands on his stomach. Friction and heat until he can feel her dampness through layers of fabric. He'll try to lift her, roll her onto her back, but no. This is her fantasy, and she'll do with him what she likes. 

His face will slacken as she pushes down her pyjama bottoms and panties. She knows he can smell her, if he can smell cologne two floors away. If she's not mistaken, his tongue darts out to lick at his lips. She's happy to oblige him. Her hands grasp the headboard as her knees settle on each side of his head and his tongue pushes up into her cunt without hesitation. 

Claire's back arches as if she's been touched with electrical current. It zips up her spine and tosses her head back, and she moans so loudly it surprises her. Matt moans too. Her thighs tense and relax on either side of his head. His stubble digs into the soft skin there and rubs as she rocks against his face. His fingertips dig into her ass. He's helpless to do anything but eat her out, and he does, like a starving man, fervent. His tongue flicks against her clit, presses flat, dips into her, everywhere at once. He's desperate to please her. If the situation itself wasn't getting her off, the feverish work of his tongue would be. She gasps as the intensity rises. Her hands tighten on the headboard. Matt's tongue thrusts, repeating. It must be making his jaw ache, but he doesn't stop. Not until it rolls up, breaks, and floods her. 

She takes a moment to get her breath back as Matt's tongue lets up. When she feels like she can lift herself without shaking, she moves back down, still straddling him. He's still hard, a damp patch where the head of his cock tents the fabric. She rubs it with her thumb and smiles at the tremor that goes through him. She gets her fingertips under the waistband and pulls down, just to his knees, to limit his movement. She holds his dick steady as she lifts herself up and then sinks down onto it with a breathy _oh_.

Matt moans beneath her. He looks so pretty with his mouth open, eyes wide, helpless. More than that, he looks vulnerable. She's denuded him of rage and self-righteousness and stripped him down to pure animal need. Watching him steamrolled by bliss makes him seem more like a person, one she could love, and less like an automaton programmed for slow suicide. This satisfying self-destruction might leave him breathless and used up, but he remains very much alive.

He whispers her name over and over like a profane rosary-- _Claire please, oh god Claire, Claire, please, Claire_ \-- and his hand slaps against the mattress as she clenches her pelvic muscles around his cock. His hips lift as much as they can and drive his dick further into her. Percussion of skin against skin, harder now, faster, louder. It tears its way up through her and leaves her mouth as a broken moan. She lifts herself and drops down. Her fingernails dig into his stomach and chest, makes him moan and thrust up into her, and she scratches him, long parallel lines on his pale skin. He's moaning her name now, rising in pitch until she knows the neighbours can hear, but fuck it. The bed shifts minutely with each collision. She leans back just a little, suspended on the edge. That's it-- she comes hard, crying out in counterpoint to Matt, wracked with the climax until she collapses on top of him.

It's bitter to want that so badly and to know that it can't be. The man she-- not _loves_ , but _could love_ , maybe-- isn't Matt Murdock. He isn't real. He's an expurgated version of the real thing. The civilised face he puts on during the day is the mask. The devil is who he really is. The darkness, the violence, the brutality, and the allure of a man who is far from conventional, far from complacent, far from all the things she's found wanting in the men in her past. The worst combination of kindness and brutality, existing side by side.

And unquestionably, objectively hot. She groans and reaches for the bedside table drawer.

"Fuck you, Matt Murdock."


End file.
